


Lantern Slides

by tansypool



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Canon Compliant, During Canon, Early Days, F/M, Pre-Canon, Semi-connected oneshots, spoilers for later books are noted in chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-08-11 07:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansypool/pseuds/tansypool
Summary: In every narrative there are gaps. In this case, there is no narrative, but there are gaps filled nonetheless.Brief moments between Marisa and Asriel.





	1. first morning

**Author's Note:**

> Sir Phil's lantern slides are snippets that don't quite fit into the narrative he has written. These could theoretically fit into his narrative - that is, they are canon compliant - but there isn't a story for them to fit into. No particular order, no particular end goal, just stolen moments. Most are set prior to the series, and all are marked in their summaries as to when they are set.
> 
> [Currently being translated into Russian!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8810001)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early morning, early in their affair. Set prior to the events of the series.

She wakes long before he does, the golden light of dawn bleeding through the curtains far more than she’d like. Asriel doesn’t stir – and she finds herself staring, at the lines of his face relaxed in sleep, at the way the sunlight shines in his hair. She doubts she could have ever imagined him looking so peaceful.

He doesn’t wake as she slowly moves from under the blankets, though he does seem to shift somewhat towards where she was laying. His dæmon doesn’t stir either, though hers is as awake as she is. It’s easy enough to find her robe and slip away from the room, unnoticed.

She hasn’t seen most of the house yet. She’d arrived in Oxford late the night before, and their priorities had been somewhere besides a tour. Besides, she does want to make her own judgements.

The house is smaller than she would have expected, nearly modest – if Asriel was even capable of that – and furnished much the same. On the surface, everything is almost simple – polished wooden furniture; light linen curtains framing the many windows. But Marisa knows what well-made furnishings look like, and though they are plain, they are not cheap.

She finds herself taking pause in the kitchen, running her fingers over the weave of the Damascus linen curtains before throwing them open, the dawn light streaming in.

She searches for a kettle and her dæmon searches for tea, and soon enough she sits at the dining table with her hands wrapped around a mug, and he sits in the window, watching the branches sway on the trees outside. The house is surrounded by them, shielding it from the view of any passers-by, and she’s glad for it.

They both hear soft footsteps coming from behind but neither of them react, instead merely waiting – she wraps her hands closer around the mug a split second before she feels Asriel’s fingers brushing at her hair, and then his lips against her neck.

He almost growls his “Good morning,” and she is acutely aware of her own heart rate – no matter how much she feigns calmness, he would all but be able to taste her pulse, pressed as close to her as he is.

“I thought you might have woken me up,” he murmurs, every other word punctuated with an open-mouthed kiss, travelling the length of her neck, and she can’t stop her breath from growing quick and shallow.

Her voice is fainter and far less firm than she’d like, as she tries to mutter, “I was going to—” before his hand is against her cheek, and she’s twisting to face him, and her words are lost against his tongue.

She’s not sure how she manages not to drop her mug, but he breaks away from the kiss and pulls it from her hands, placing it – well, somewhere, she’s not entirely paying attention, her focus entirely on him. She pulls him closer again, not giving him the luxury of being the first to move, and as she kisses him, she can feel a moan coming from somewhere inside him more than she can hear it.

She can feel his hands reaching under her thighs, and she lets them, lets him lift her onto the table, with his hands still under the satin of her robe. All the while, he doesn’t break the kiss – she won’t let him, with her hand curled against the back of his neck – and he pulls blindly at the belt of her robe all the same, letting it slip down her shoulders before finding the newly exposed skin with his lips.

She’d planned on teasing him, drawing their morning out, prolonging things, with whispered comments and brushes of fingertips so light they could have been imagined. Instead, the sudden urgency leaves her with her nails scoring red marks against his back, and his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.


	2. alone in a crowded room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crowded room. Set prior to the events of the series.

He always likes to watch her in a crowded room.

She floats about effortlessly, with her chin held high and an easy smile frozen onto her face, and nothing of that smile reaching her eyes. Not that anybody seems to notice – they are bewitched by her beauty, bewitched by her words, bewitched by her strange dæmon clinging to her shoulder.

Their paths do cross, and there is no denying that they do know each other. It would be mad of them to do so. They’re professionals, experts in their respective fields, with paths of research that intersect and intertwine. Her research is largely theoretical, and his mostly involves trips to frozen, barren wastelands, but recent discoveries in Rusakov particles are a topic on everybody’s minds and tongues, and the latest controversies about one of the theologians involved in the research are a natural progression in the conversation. It’s not a mere excuse to talk to her for that bit longer, to flaunt their connection even though they hide its true nature – though whenever he tells himself this, he can feel Stelmaria bristle, at the lie they are both acutely aware of him repeating in his mind.

But sometimes, the conversation is fleeting, if they have it at all. Or it is kept strictly to business – by an aging academic with a hunched back and halitosis, or a benefactor with a tight expression and tighter pockets. He pretends to listen to whatever they have to say, forgetting their names and their words before the conversation ends, and he can see the same happening in Marisa, in the clench of her jaw and the way her eyes flicker to his, just for a split second.

She never betrays her boredom, even though her monkey often looks as though he’s coiled and ready to attack whenever a conversation drags on for too long. Asriel knows he must often look the same – with Stelmaria never betraying him, her expression and posture held coolly neutral.

He has only felt her discomfort at something besides his own behaviour once, as they politely conversed with Marisa and her husband, the man’s hand on his wife’s back and his unreadable, unremarkable dæmon resting on his shoulder. It’s the only conversation he has with her for the entire evening, and he spends it feeling as though he is being simultaneously flaunted to – Edwin? Edward? Edmund? – and as though he is being taunted with the man’s presence. Knowing Marisa, probably both, but neither her nor her dæmon gives it away.

But even then, that night, and every other night that their paths cross, he always watches her, and waits to catch her eye, across that crowded room, and for that split second, they may as well be alone.


	3. of dreams and night-ghasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marisa dreams. Set during the events of The Amber Spyglass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, some of these were going to be scenes in a bigger story, and this was the framing device for that story. But then I wound up with more scenes and than I could cram into it. So here we are.

She sleeps fitfully in the cave – tense and stiff, hyperaware of every tiny noise, paranoid that it’s someone coming. But it’s only ever Lyra sniffling in her sleep, or the swaying of a branch outside, or the scrambling of the bats against the light. There’s little to do in that cave – she waits, she watches Lyra sleep, she is visited by the little local girl and lies to her as easily as she breathes. And she sleeps, and inevitably dreams.

Waking up against Asriel’s chest, something she has done more times than she could count. But in one dream, he’s stone cold; in another, he’s gone when she looks in his direction, nothing remaining but swiftly fading warmth underneath her hands.

A sleeping child, small enough to sprawl across her chest, weighing her down so much that she cannot move. She doesn’t know what Lyra looked like at this age – and she can’t see the child’s face to know if it could be her. She can only assume, from the colour of her hair, from the steadfast stubbornness in her pose on the occasion that she dreams of the girl awake, from the deep ache in her chest every time she thinks of her. The child that might be Lyra sleeps, and crushes her in place, with that same, suffocating fear that had overwhelmed her from the moment she knew of that child’s existence.

But the next time she sleeps, the same image returns, without the image of the weight holding her down like a rock. A little girl, contentedly asleep against her chest, hair flittering against Marisa’s breath, and Asriel, just as contentedly asleep by their side, their dæmons serenely curled together. In that deep dream state, it almost feels like something she could have lived with, had she known that it was at all something that could have been. But as she watches the real Lyra, through a haze of steam as she prepares more of the sleeping draught, the potential reality warps into thoughts of a life wasted and resentful, of nothing gained and nothing achieved. She’d thrown it all away, in the end, but at least she’d had it to throw away at all.

She dreams of that faceless child more and more. A little girl, on unsteady legs, running away gleefully, her dæmon flickering bird-ferret-leopard-monkey-bear by her side, joyous in the grass and the golden light of the afternoon. But it swirls into something else, with no warning, the way dreams so often do, and it’s that same little girl on those same unsteady legs, running away, without her dæmon in sight, against a dark, wintry sky. Marisa wakes with a sick dread, a sick thought of things that might have been, and she’s left uneasy, picking at her fingernails, as her monkey picks at a dead bat.

She dreams of Asriel, and the way he would brush his fingers against her cheeks as he leaned in to kiss her, but the Asriel in her head moves sharply, and his fingers are around her throat, and she wakes suddenly, gasping for air, and her dæmon wakes just as suddenly – as though he dreamt of Asriel’s snow leopard, and her teeth in his throat.

But she dreams of him again, and awakens feeling as soft and light against the floor of the cave as she had felt in his arms in her dream, as soft and light as she had felt in his arms, all those years ago.

They’re all she can think of in the monotonous peace, and she wishes that they could be all she thought of forevermore, if it meant keeping Lyra safe. But in a brief moment, filled with gunfire and blood and a window into another world, it’s all gone, and she is encompassed by an endless, all-consuming pain.

The first time she sleeps after she leaves the cave, she dreams of Lyra – of her face, awake and angry, and full of loathing, and there’s nothing conjured by her mind, this time. It’s exactly as it happened, her mind running it repeatedly, not a detail altered, and it stings her far more than any of her nightmares and any of the pain she has endured ever did.


	4. control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening alone, and a balance of control. Set prior to the events of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels appropriate that this is the first thing I upload after AO3's Hugo Award win. It's also the reason this fic has an M rating.

Marisa is not one to trust naturally – she convinces, she manipulates, but she rarely trusts, and even more rarely lets herself be vulnerable. However, with Asriel, there was always an implicit trust, in the need to keep every moment shared a secret – every stolen moment, every conversation, every night shared in his bed.

She hadn’t quite expected _this_ degree of trust and vulnerability, and even laying beneath him with his lips on every part of her skin that they can touch, she still can’t let herself relinquish that last shred of control.

Her fingers are tangled in his hair, guiding his head to _exactly_ where she wants it, and it’s as he does _something_ with his tongue that she grips harder – and he stops. She can’t bring herself to glare at him – she tells herself that she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but she’s not sure she can quite bring herself to move that sharply, either. All she can muster is a short, sharp sigh of annoyance, but Asriel doesn’t seem to notice, murmuring against her thigh, “If you don’t stop that, I’ll make you.”

She barely relaxes, and she doesn’t let go, but the part of her wondering how he plans on stopping her quickly finds itself distracted, and it’s the curl of his tongue that has her fingers tight in his hair and her heel digging into his back that see him stopping still, suddenly enough that her grip falters, and he pulls away.

She purses her lips at the sudden cool air against her thighs, at the feeling of the mattress moving as he leaves to do… something. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking, to see what exactly it is that he’s doing. But she knows he isn’t one to leave a job half-finished – there would be a part of her annoyed at making him stop, but she knows that he’s probably annoyed at her for it, and in her head, that is well worth her own annoyance.

She waits until he is back in her line of sight to let him see the smirk she’s been holding back, but he doesn’t take much notice, kissing the expression from her face, his body warm and heavy against hers. His lips are against hers, against her neck, against her pulse, and she can’t help the moan that slips out, or the way her jaw stutters against his as he kisses her again, hot and harsh, enough that she’d usually try to match it, but all she can do is lose herself in it completely, her hands in his, stretched above her head, her head spinning as she loses her focus entirely.

And then he breaks away, a victorious expression on his face, and she realises why, when she feels the silk tie against her wrists. It’s not particularly tight, the knot hasty and loose, and she thinks she could get out of it. Not that she particularly wants to, if Asriel plans on finishing what he started.

But he looks far too self-satisfied, and when she mutters, “You’re an _ass_,” the look only intensifies. She can’t bring herself to look as exasperated as she had hoped, and she knows he can tell that, as he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he makes his way down her body agonisingly slowly, kissing her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and all she can do is bite her lip, and try not to let him think that he’s the one in control.


	5. endless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief glimpse into Marisa's mind. Set during the events of The Amber Spyglass.

They fall, and she knows they’ll never stop.

\---

It doesn’t feel like she’s falling any more, but her head is spinning fiercely nonetheless. There’s nothing to cling to anymore – Metatron’s form dissolved into atoms and then nothing at all, some indeterminate amount of time ago. By then, she had stopped trying to keep track.

\---

Asriel has said nothing. He hasn’t said anything since before they jumped. She looks to him, and realises with a nauseating jolt that Stelmaria is gone.

\---

She can’t focus any more, not that there is anything to focus on. Her monkey is as silent as ever. She is silent, too.

\---

She can barely keep herself conscious. She stops trying.

\---

She is agonisingly awake, feeling as though she is adrift from everything she ever was. And then she notices that her monkey is gone – and in a second, she is gone, too.


	6. love to be had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected night, in early days. Set prior to the events of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with these stories, because inspiration finally struck again, and I felt _sappy_.

Marisa has a routine honed for her trips to Oxford. What she brings, which hotel she chooses and never sets foot in, and how to bury the truth of her visit in so many layers of excuses and lies and the occasional half-truth that any time spent with Asriel is completely hidden away, completely accounted for. She tries to coincide her trips with studies she intends on doing anyway – though usually that, too, requires pre-planning.

Usually, however, is not always, and a mid-afternoon telegram sees Marisa frantically cancelling every plan and appointment she has in the next week, all far less important than a centuries-old handwritten manuscript being unexpectedly available at Bodley’s Library, which her research has been stalled by the wait for. Meetings can wait, especially meetings reliant on the research she hasn’t been able to do. She also quietly sends a telegram – through one buffer she has found, a jaded hotel clerk who will keep silent for a pittance and a room he knows won’t have to be cleaned.

The last zeppelin to Oxford leaves at sunset, and she doesn’t want to risk missing it while she finalises her plans, so she finds herself on a train, in a compartment by herself, reams of research filling the bag in the seat opposite, her suitcase stowed in the rack above. She watches the light fade over the countryside, sipping at black coffee, her dæmon all but falling asleep on the opposite end of the bench seat. She won’t let herself doze off, won’t let herself succumb to anything the way he always lets himself succumb to every emotion.

The last time she saw Asriel was weeks ago, and only an evening, at the Royal Arctic Institute, as they feigned being mere acquaintances with a slight crossover in their interests. There was barely even a chance for them to be alone – but it was long enough for him to tell her that he was going away, just a fortnight in the south of Norroway, and she knows that he should be back by now.

She arrives in Oxford well after dark, and the hotel she has booked is staffed by a lone night clerk she hasn’t seen before. The woman – middle-aged, with lank grey hair struggling to stay in its twist – speaks in a bored monotone, her empty-eyed hound-dæmon not moving from where he lays. “Name?”

“I have a booking under Coulter, thank you.”

The woman doesn’t look up as she passes up a key and an envelope. “Telegram arrived earlier, ma’am.” It’s a mere few words – _Am in Oxford. A._

Marisa ignores the woman’s complete disregard for propriety, and smiles sweetly at her. “I need to meet a colleague with some of my work, if you’d be able to arrange a cab for me.” She lets the smile widen a little as she stops speaking, staring at the woman.

The woman doesn’t look up as she picks up the phone, drumming a pencil against the desk as she waits for the switchboard operator to connect. Marisa maintains her smile, letting it settle into something serene, as she ignores her monkey fidgeting at her feet, unnoticeable to anybody but her.

And then, after what felt like far too long: “There’ll be a car here in ten minutes.” And for the first time, the woman glances up. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”

Marisa smiles again – she hasn’t stopped throughout the entire conversation. “No, thank you, that’s perfect. I’ll see myself out.”

“Have a lovely evening.” And then the woman picks up the book laid face-down on her desk – some drivel with a swooning woman on the cover – and doesn’t seem to notice as Marisa leaves without going to her room first.

She lets the smile finally slip and scowls as she walks towards the door, bags in hand, but it’s firmly back on her face before she steps back outside to wait for the cab.

It comes early, the driver is efficient, and he barely says a word. He carries her bags to Asriel’s door, tips his hat, and leaves before she knocks.

Asriel opens the door – calm, almost placid, nodding as he says a soft “Good evening, Marisa,” and holds the door for her to walk in, picking up her bags behind her.

The door is barely closed behind her before his hands are on her waist, gently backing her against the door, and he kisses her, warm and slow and gentle. He breaks the kiss as his hand comes to rest against her cheek, and she leans into it slightly, watching the look in his eyes. She can’t help the smile that spreads, wide and uncontrollable and – for the first time all day – genuine, as she stares into his eyes, their faces barely even inches apart. He kisses her again – once, twice, thrice, short and sweet, and she can feel herself smiling into the kisses, can feel herself relaxing at his touch.

And he stops, and murmurs against her ear, “So, dropped everything because you missed me, did you?”

She laughs a little at that, at the comment that somehow doesn’t make her bristle. “I dropped everything for a manuscript that was banned for three centuries on the grounds of heresy, and _you_ just happen to have a house more comfortable than a hotel.”

“But I won’t be losing you to it until tomorrow.” He kisses her cheek, and seems intent on working his lips down the length of her neck, but she stops him, her hands pressing gently against his chest.

She waits for him to look her in the eye, and murmurs, “I just want to have a bath, and go to bed.”

He relents, but not without kissing her again, and she lets him lead her down the hall and to the bedroom – if it weren't for the need to wash the day from her skin, she'd have happily curled up in his bed then, bathing be damned.

She realises upon emptying her bag that, in her haste in packing, she’s forgotten her robe – but she can't bring herself to care about that. She really only brings it for the delight of Asriel pulling it off her body, and has every intention of stealing his shirts of a morning, should the need arise.

Asriel finds her still kneeling in front of her bag, and she only notices him there at his fingers in her hair, brushing it away from her face. She glances up at him, at the sound of his voice, as he says, “Are you going to have that bath or should I just leave you here?”

“If you leave me here, I’ll go back to the hotel.”

He laughs – he knows as well as she does that it would take more than _that_ to convince her to stay in _that_ hotel. But he waits for her to stand up, and follows her towards the bathroom, where she can hear water running.

He watches her as she takes off her make-up in the mirror and ties her hair up, and sidles up behind her, silently undoing the clasp on her necklace, meeting her eyes in the reflection.

His hands are still gentle against her as he turns her to face him, undoing the buttons of her blouse, the clasp on her skirt, his eyes never leaving her as she lets her clothes lay where they land. She steps into the bath and closes her eyes, half aware of him moving around the room – placing towels within reaching distance, before the soft impact of fabric against tiles as he strips off. She doesn’t open her eyes, even as she feels his hand against her shoulders, nudging her forward until he can climb in behind her.

“So this was your plan all along, was it?” She leans in close to him as she says it, the warmth of his skin all too comfortable, lulling her even more into a half-awake state.

“Damn. You got me.” His hands wander against her, against her chest and her stomach, his intentions made clear, but she curls against him and sighs, so he stops, and pulls her closer, pressing a light kiss against her hair.

She’s vaguely aware of their dæmons curled together, just as close, and that warmth fills her, that all-encompassing warmth being all she needs to feel herself drift away, just for a moment—

—as he wakes her up, his voice murmuring words she isn’t quite awake enough to discern, but the water isn’t as hot as it was, and she can feel him moving, so she opens her eyes as he climbs out, hands her a towel, and she still isn’t quite awake.

She dries off, but doesn’t bother with pyjamas, holding the towel against herself as she follows Asriel to his bed. She’s already curled up under the duvet before he joins her, and she leans into his chest, his heartbeat solid against her ear, his arm holding her close.

The same warmth encompasses her, of knowing her monkey is curled against the snow leopard just as she is against Asriel, and she’s already drifting back to sleep, as he mutters, “Glad to know I’m interesting enough to keep you awake.”

She mutters back – into his chest, unsure that he’ll hear it, not awake enough to care – “Good _night_, Asriel.” But she’s warm, her skin against his, and the last thing she notices is the gentle brush of his hand against her back, telling her that he did, in fact, hear her.


	7. none is left to protest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asriel wakes in the middle of the night. Set prior to the events of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theoretically, it could be any time during their affair, but it follows on very neatly from the previous chapter.

Asriel wakes in the middle of the night to a feeling of being just that bit too warm, just that bit too stifled, missing the cool of Norroway in the heat of Oxford that nobody else would call warm.

His first instinct is to throw the blankets to the floor, a state he has often woken up in on returns from the north, or to fling his pyjamas in the same direction, not that there is anything left to remove. But he doesn’t, because his next instinct is not to wake the woman beside him.

Marisa is deeply asleep, her face relaxed and soft, her breaths low and even through slightly parted lips. He can’t help but watch her in the darkness, her features barely illuminated by the glow of the moon. Despite his discomfort, he can’t help but stop, and stare.

Stelmaria doesn’t seem to have taken notice of Asriel waking up, still curled asleep and restful, with golden fur shining against her own, the limbs and tails of the dæmons intertwined so closely, it’s as though they’re meant to be nowhere else.

_It would be easier,_ Asriel thinks, _just to wake her up._ But he doesn’t, trying to fold the blankets away from his chest without disturbing her, and he moves slowly, slowly enough that she doesn’t seem to notice.

She doesn’t notice as he extricates himself from the sheet, opening the window just slightly, letting cool air in. It would be easier, too, just to stay there a little while, but he can’t, not when she’s so close to him, in an ever-rare moment of peace.

It would be easier, not to have had to try so hard to lower himself silently back into bed, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else besides that. It would be easier if she didn’t move, ever so slightly, as he lays back against his pillow – but she doesn’t wake up; instead, she sighs, and stretches her arm across his chest, curling against him, pulling herself close to him, her face pressed into his shoulder.

It would be easier if they weren’t here at all, if they’d stayed nothing to each other – a face from a night of regret, if they were even that to each other. It would be easier, maybe. But she’s soft against him, and her breath fluttering against his chest makes his heart ache, and he can’t even contemplate another path when he can lie there with Marisa in his arms, so close that it’s as though they’re meant to be nowhere else.


	8. unseeing and unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another party, another crowded room. Set prior to the events of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write something fluffy, because we need it after _that_ finale, but you're getting this instead.

It's the same old ballroom with the same old people. He's in the same old suit and a tie that is only new because he can't find the last one he wore - otherwise, it could have been any other night, each as routine as the last.

The company is tedious, but he has to be there, feigning interest in the men whose money he still hates to rely on, promising them research that will benefit them, if only they let him undertake it. He still commands their respect - landless and lacking in funds though he may be, he is still a lord, and that title sees him outranking them, even if it rarely comes across.

But he notices something - someone - and he feels his heart jolt, feels it fall to the pit of his stomach as every hair on Stelmaria bristles for a split second before falling flat.

She's there. Of course she is. She stands out - of course she does, she always does, drawing every eye in the room, from unfiltered, unashamed lust, to the glares of the harshly conservative. He does notice that few of the glares come from those he knows to associate with the Magisterium. Even without her reputation, it's obvious why everyone stares - her dress is the same transfixing icy blue as her eyes, glowing against the sea of blacks and greys and browns, the only gown on the only woman in the room, the monkey glowing golden next to her in a room full of dogs and birds and reptiles. Still the same woman, but somehow a breath of fresh air in all of this, not that he wants to admit it. He can't help but watch her across that room, hoping that she doesn't see him staring.  


She's still wearing her ring - not that he can quite see it, but Stelmaria's eyes are better than his, and he feels the bristle that runs through her to his core. The woman has been a widow longer than she ever was a wife, a known adulteress with a known reputation, and yet she still wears it like a badge of honour.

She’s here alone, just as he is, and she's here because she needs to be, not because she wants to be, just as he is. And standing alone, she lets the glances slide over her unnoticed, calm and collected, but with a poker-straight spine, one he knows from experience is rigid with tension.  


He hates that he still knows that, and he hates that he can still read her so easily, without hearing a word.

He watches as she sidles up to a man he doesn’t care to know the name of, and leans in just that bit too close - it could be nothing untoward, just an inch too close in a room too crowded. Asriel tells himself that he isn’t watching, but he can’t help the rush of relief as he watches the man turn away, as Marisa’s spine instantly stiffens again, boredom flickering across her face for a split second before it vanishes behind her well-honed mask.

Asriel takes a sip from his glass, but realises belatedly that it’s nearly empty, and that it’s suddenly sour against his tongue. He can feign interest in pursuit of funds another time - when there won’t be the inevitable glances between the two of them, when he can just be a theologian and not half of a scandal.  


He finishes his drink, and leaves without looking back, and he doubts that she even saw him.


	9. before the dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very brief moment, half-awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set prior to the beginning of the series.
> 
> I really have a thing for these two half-asleep.

The dawn is always late at this time of the year, and the sun has not risen enough to warm the room. Not that it would, anyway – it’s unusually cold this year, the snow deep and relentless, the air cold enough to hurt on every breath.

But as Marisa wakes, she doesn’t feel the cold. Instead, all she can notice in her barely-awake mind is an all-encompassing warmth.

She feels somewhat confined the position she has woken up in – Asriel has pressed most of his body against her back, and has slung his arm around her, holding her close. His breath is warm and slow and even against the back of her neck. The weight of Asriel’s dæmon is solid against her stomach, the warmth from her noticeable even through the blankets. And she knows that her own dæmon is curled into the snow leopard’s belly, his fingers clutching at her fur.

Her monkey is on the verge of falling back asleep, and Marisa knows that she is too. She so rarely feels like that - usually, she is wide awake as soon as she opens her eyes. But usually, she does not awaken feeling quite so content.

She’s nearly asleep again when she feels Asriel’s lips press gently against her shoulder, as he pulls her closer, before he buries his face against her neck, sighing contentedly. She doubts that he knows she’s awake – not that it matters, because she’s asleep again within seconds.


End file.
